Twenty Seconds
by shyvioletangel1234
Summary: 'I close my eyes for a minute, just to have them forced open by what once was a light breeze in August. I dream about what September would have been for a half a second until I am slammed back to reality and fifteen-I'm not ready to die.' It only takes twenty seconds to fall from the airship to the wing, but while you're falling, it seems like an eternity.' Oneshot I DON'T OWN


Two.

I didn't know that there was an unfathomable eternity between two and three. You can blink at least five times. One two

Three seconds.

Four?

No. Still three.

How long could this possibly- ah. Four.

For those of you who have never fallen off of the side of an airship before, let me say a few things: One. It takes an interminably long time until you know whether you've fallen or flown and Two. I'm not precisely sure what happens at two or even, really how one ends, because I'm still stuck at the four-no, five- second mark in part one and Three. Don't try this at home, kids. Not just because it's tiring and long and possibly-no, more like veritably- lethal, but it isn't even worth it. I could just fly up, up among the cloud cats right now out of sheer boredom.

Then why aren't I doing it out of mortal terror?

Light as a feather. But…am I?

No. I can feel that now.

If I were standing still right now, I would probably feel a sudden chill roll over me.

Six.

People always say that you'll be ready when your time comes, that you'll feel peaceful and all that. If that was true, I would feel content right, now, soaring. But I'm not. Does that mean I'll live another day? Does that mean I'll fly again?

Seven. Eight. It's going faster now, as I get more used to it. That's how all things go, right? They get faster as you're more and more used to the motion, muscle memory. But then, after you get used to it, you tire more easily and you

Stop.

Nine.

So. It takes more than nine seconds to fall from the top of an airship.

I thought flight was like freedom with a hydrium parachute, roaming the air, which truly should have been the final frontier. Space was far too overrated and unreachable. I could see the stars among the dusk from my window, but never considered life among the vacuum.

Another misconception about this whole 'falling to your death' thing; your life flashing dramatically before your eyes. Ten. It doesn't, unless my life is an open sky with cloud cats and the side of the Aurora blocking the sun, letting only a few beams escape, coloring the beautiful creatures in shades of autumn from the bloodstained sunrise. I could be a cloud cat, born in the air, and (perhaps) die in the air. I could be floating upon the breeze. I could be sailing through the sky that tastes like grayness and saltwater. A cat's wing smacks me and I twist to the side, eyes open. Twelve. The Aurora's wing, now, is coming to meet me, and I get the feeling we're going to be great friends. Today is not my day with wings, I think, and try to laugh, but the screaming wind tears it from my throat.

I've never had problems with heights. I've always believed that I was as light-boned as the beings I free-fall with, and that if this situation (no matter how unrealistic it may seem) ever occurred I would sail back to the side stairs with ease. Some nights I would go to the top deck and think about testing my beliefs- not suicidal, just- just prone to flying.

Thirteen. I think about my father, wonder if this is the same wind that bit at his arms, clawed at his shirt and howled in his ears. I imagine his eyes open wide like mine are now, but his salvation wasn't in the sea he faced. I wonder if he ever got to see the beautiful creatures that would haunt my dreams- if I had any left. Fourteen.

I close my eyes for a minute, just to have them forced open by what once was a light breeze in August. I dream about what September would have been for a half a second until I am slammed back to reality and fifteen-I'm not ready to die. Not this time, not any of the rest, not up until I hit that one moment where I slide out of personhood, hopefully after a long life as a sailmaker who doesn't have any more pirates hurling him off of airships. Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen-

I curl up on my side and hope it doesn't hurt.

Twenty.

* * *

Dispelling myth number three- it does.


End file.
